A Shot in the Dark
by Onyx Feathers
Summary: Perhaps Hans's cruelty was not real. Perhaps, when he said, I never loved you, it was a lie. If the trolls meant it literally when they said "Get rid of the fiancee," and Hans learns the real meaning of internal conflict. The heart is stubborn, but the mind is easily swayed.
1. you're looking like a stranger

**My best friend was talking about Frozen, and I hated the way Hans was thrown out of the way so Kristoff could be "the one," so this began. I mean, they probably should have explained more on his reasons, and no one can be as great as an actor as he was, since his character was so wrapped up in jealousy and a big bow of bitterness and cleverness to pull this off on the top.**

**Also, I am a fan of the Avengers, and mind control isn't a rarity in that case. (it was a little more like heart control in Hawkeye's case, but I digress.)**

* * *

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the words.**_

**This will be multi-chaptered, but will have no particular updating system.**

* * *

Hans can feel the insisting beat of falling rocks in his head, a resounding drum-thump-dum pounding to the soft undercurrent of violin strings. It feels wrong somehow, like a misshapen puzzle piece that does not quite fit, no matter how much you try to force it, but he just cannot recall the memory of what it was like without it. There must have been a time, he knows this with certainty, but it flutters out of his reach, a word on the tip of his tongue, a long lost memento, tossed away.

It twists inside him, bubbling and churning and he wants to throw up.

Instead, he stands before Queen Elsa's castle, and feels the sinuous tendrils leech itself around his mind.

* * *

In the flickering light of the fireplace, Anna seems even more ethereal, a far cry from her usual, delightful manner. Her honeyed complexion dwindles to a pale, rosebud cheeked image, and together with her silvery blonde hair, Hans is once again struck by the similarity to Queen Elsa.

As he leans down, his mind is cackling with glee, and he has only that moment's warning before the drumming floods his senses, turning everything a bright, vivid green, and it pounds deep in his soul as he laughs, but it feels like it is torn, twisting out of his mouth. He is being played like a pianist's instrument, a marionette's string, and it feels so wrong, and he can hear everything he is saying, but his mind shouts yes and his heart screams no, and it hurts so bloody much he cannot even-

Hans's scream bubbles and dies in his mouth as he extinguishes the demanding flames, and he wishes for nothing more than to turn back as he walks out of the ornate wooden doors, to hold the one he so wanted to be with, the one he believed would be _the one, _for all her innocence and stubbornness and strength. Hans wants to mend the broken threads, stitch it back together again and wash it free of the green and everything else, like it was, like it used to be.

Instead, Hans's footsteps carry him away, further from anything he knows, and the vitriol coming out of his mouth spew hatred and greed and bitterness, and they _believe him, _and that hurts more than anything else. He wants to shout and spit in their faces, and _can't you see this isn't me? _But instead the words come out, too soft to be heard, and the sadness is carried away in the brushing winter winds.

* * *

He is forced to watch as his own lumbering hands, covered in calluses from long days of sword training and bruised knuckles and small cuts swing down in a silver wind of deadly sharpness to Queen Elsa's pale, unblemished throat.

Hans does not hear it shatter, because his heart is too busy breaking alongside it.

* * *

No one can believe it, really, and why should they? (he has so many brothers, all big and strong and tall and just like him, ripe and pickings for the throne, should the current heir have an -accident.) In terms of politics, nobody cares, nobody fights, and he laughs to himself as his father looks down at him disapprovingly, all dull red hair with streaks of white and bright blue eyes full of disbelief and somewhat-indifference. Hans imagines he is near unreadable- driven mad by jealousy and envy, they say. Perhaps it is true, but not for the reasons any of them believe. It still hurts, like a part of him ripped out and shredded to pieces.

If he was an optimist (which he is not) he would still cling on to the tiny sliver of hope that Anna still has a place in her heart for him, and if he was a pessimist, he would say, perhaps, for her, he was a brief infatuation, nothing more. If he were a realist, he would say that there was no hope, and that was okay, because Hans would not forgive himself either. He is all of those things and none.

Eventually, when Anna comes to visit, he sits there, hands in his lap, and smiles sadly at the love of his life, hoping his eyes would say everything he wanted to.

"Why did you do it?" Anna asks, softly, like she still does not want to believe it.

Hans looks down at his smudged, dirty hands, and shrugs in lieu of a response. He does not quite know, either, because a part of himself wished it feverously, but his heart still ached, aches, and he can remember the exact shade of bright neon toxic emeralds. She is as beautiful as ever, her hair done up in a intricate updo and a dark plum traveling cloak, and it leaves a bittersweet taste in his mouth. The white streak is completely gone now.

"Hans...?"

Hans does not falter in the tapping of the beat against his thigh. The silence rings throughout the room. (or cell. Or box. It definitely was not a room.)

"Did you ever love me?" Hans says softly, the words startling him as much as it does Anna. His voice is hoarse and cracked from disuse, like the crumpling of paper and the crushing of leaves. Anna does not seem to know how to respond.

"I- I don't know," she replies stutteringly. Anna spins around in a swish of her deep colored cloak and makes for the door, and just as she is about to close it, Hans says to her fading color-

"I love you, you know."

Hans wonders if Anna heard. The clanging of the cell door brings about an absolute finality, and the metal sound echoes in his ears, till there is only his ragged breathing and the faint, so very faint bustle of the palace above his concrete floor.

Perhaps there would have been a world where she could have said yes, and Hans could have whispered it back. Instead, there is the sickly sweet scent of blood red roses hanging in the air, with poisonous, bright green thorns, and it clutches at him and suffocates him and pushes him further into the chasm of no return.


	2. tried counting sheep

**Apologies for the shortness of the chapter. This is pretty much my practice at writing longer things.**

**Thanks for the reviews so far!**

* * *

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the words.**_

**This will be multi-chaptered, but will have no particular updating system.**

* * *

After an pressuring, undetermined amount of time, Hans has grown accustomed to the concrete walls and metal bars and hard straw bed of his own cage. He is no more sane than he was, spurred by heartbreak and loneliness and no small amount of anger, and he takes to humming to fill the silence. Once or twice, some come to visit him- his oldest brother, Elsa, his mother, but never Anna. He stares at them till they dissolve into thin wisps of fading mists, and he is left to wonder if they were really real or not. He recalls childhood memories, happy or otherwise- he was really left alone as a child anyways- his parents tending to the kingdom and his other, older brothers, and he spent many a day in his room planning out strategies and reading books of all kinds. Politically, no one had any reason to suck up to the youngest prince, after all, he gave them no reason to.

Hans knows solitude, and he tells himself this is no different, but really, he should know better by now. No one will come for him, that he definitely knows, so he appreciates the small company of his hallucinations, counts the small freckles on his mother's face, numbers every strand of silvery hair. He traces every crack in the walls, writes stories untold in the dust, remembers every tear shed. It is comforting, but sometimes he longs to breathe fresh air, leave tracks in the powdery winter snow, feel the stifling heat of summer across his skin. He feels trapped, isolated, and he can do nothing for his hurt except burying it beneath layers of everything else, but it rots and festers inside him, and some days he thinks he can feel the green seeping beneath his mind again, and he claws it out with the strength of a madman. He cannot breathe for a while afterwards, and he is left a shaking mess of rags and torn feelings.

The only way he has to track the passage of time is a small, barred window (just like everything else- his mind, his heart, shut from the world), and he numbers every day with another streak of black soot in a corner in the wall. He counts down years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds, milliseconds, microseconds, nanoseconds, every tick of the clock, the bell he can hear in the distance and all that is in between.

On day 756, the door to his cell swings open, and he knows it is not an illusion this time, because he can hear every creak, the grinding of rusty hinges. The illusions never open the doors. His mother steps through- as fair as the last day he saw her, freckles and beautiful red hair and glimmering forest green eyes, not bright like emeralds (never toxic green.) The sight of her burns, and he looks away, wrapping another layer of rope binding his still bleeding heart together. It squeezes so tight he cannot draw in another breath for a moment. He can feel the metallic tang beneath his tongue. It is all he can do not to fall apart.

"Hans... Your father has made a new decision. Come," she says, no more, no less, a beckoning lilt to her voice, and her look is unreadable as the heart's wiles as she glances down at him. Hans cannot see any recognition, any love, any grief. It sends another piece of shrapnel spiraling in his chest. She turns without looking back to see if he is still coming, and this time, he is on the other side of the door as it clangs shut, the sound reverberating down the hallway. His footsteps are slow but steady, and he follows behind his mother, leaving the clinging scent of musky roses and sharp thorns behind, but the chains of darkness and crushing metal still drag him down.

* * *

Clemency, he says. Exile for the rest of your imprisonment term, stripped of all titles, and personal effects borne of any princely or royal value. Hans does not argue. He never cared, and never will, not again. He longs to see the wind, feel the breeze against his skin. This will be a chance at mending what could have been, forge a new life out of the bleeding green, for as long as his ripped heart pounds in his chest, for as long as it takes to free his bound mind of rose thorns and chains and broken love and greed and jealousy and envy, at least till he can recognize himself in the mirror once more. He never intends to come back. There is nothing for him here.

The slamming of the heavy, strong, carved oak doors of the palace as it shuts behind him reminds him of the grinding of rusty metal doors, and the crimson light turns his hands a sharp red and Victoria's beige mane a bleeding orange. The snow is the same color as his hands, and Victoria's hooves step in the color of blood red as snowflakes fall from the sky.

* * *

He leaves on day 756 by sunset, and does not look back.

* * *

Anna rushes out of the palace as fast as she can, on the galloping hooves of Clementine, and her chestnut mane is the only constant thing in Anna's vision- everything else is nothing but a blur, and she can barely the biting chill against her skin. They stop once, and only once, and even then it is quick and hurried, for Anna did not bring much. She charters a boat when she can go no further, and gold is nothing in the desperation and pain that clutches her heart.

When she finally reaches the Southern Isles, Hans is long gone, the flurry of snow descending from above covering any footsteps he may have left behind, and Anna watches as the truth falls from her quivering fingers and shatters against the ground in deadly shards. She picks up the pieces and watches as her fingers bleed onto the snow.

She whispers to the retreating darkness of the forest, but the harsh blizzard winds snatch her words away, and she smells the scent of roses whiter than any snow and redder than any crimson blood. Anna feels it pulling her down as she turns away, and the chains on her hands seem even heavier than ever. The stars laugh at her as she turns to leave, and she feels a vengeance curling itself around her chest.

* * *

( She will find him. Until then, her heart has no rest. )


	3. my bed is half empty (not half full)

**Once again, thank you for all the feedback. c: I wrote 200 words more- that's an improvement, no?**

**By the way, there are virtually no pairings except for Hans/Anna, and I managed to slip some Jelsa somewhere in here. Jack will play a small role in this, if I can fit him in. He is just royalty- I just picked a large city in Sweden. I will take care of Kristoff, don't worry, and I'll explain my reasons as to how and why eventually.  
**

**Pay attention to the parentheses, by the way. **

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except for the combination of words (I don't even own the words.)**_

* * *

Victoria's hooves clack loudly against the cobbles of the dusty road. Hans brushes a crimson maple leaf off his cloaked shoulder, and frowns down at the stone. His exile is long over, but he has no desire to return to his (once) home- he does not belong anywhere, now. He does not want to risk someone recognizing him. He wonders what kind of reception he would be met with.

The scar tissues of wounds a decade ago feel rougher than ever- patches and uneven splats wrapped around the bleeding lacerations, which will never quite be the same way again. There are gray hairs intermixed with fine red threads, crow's feet around his eyes, though he never laughs. The world has given him no reason to, and he does not bother with it. He is not happy, but he is content, and that is all he can hope for, after all. Hans has left everything behind on the crimson snow and a blood red sunset, underneath dirt and flowers and grass and rock, buried so deeply it will never be found.

Still, he has to know. Has Queen Elsa's magnificent frozen castle melted, grinded and crushed and broken down into glittering droplets? How would Arendelle look in the clutches of autumn, red and gold and browns and blacks? Perhaps Anna has left him behind with the ghosts of an eternal, harsh winter, forgotten in the summer and spring.

Hans rides on towards the sunrise.

* * *

It is early evening by the time he reaches the boundaries of Arendelle, and he manages to sneak through the crowd easily- he left Victoria behind at an inn, under the guise of Henry Westershield, which he has legitimate documents for- his time in the southern parts of Europe was spent lying low, and he did not want to risk any chances. The memory is comforting, reassuring.

His gray cloak and light brown leathers do not attract attention- despite Arendelle being a close-knit community, no doubt many storytellers, traders and travelers pass by here often, on their way to Oslo. He fades gently into the background, a middle-aged man with light blue eyes and an unassuming smile.

Eventually, he makes his way to the brightly colored marketplace- he picks a stall selling leathers and furs and walks over with a faint, friendly smile. The man- no doubt in his fifties- waves off another fussy customer and looks at Hans. Hans tunes out the noisy chatter of the hurried crowd behind him.

"You do not appear to be around here," the shopkeeper says by lieu of greeting. "How may I help you? Last winter was especially cold, so I still have some thick furs."

Hans runs his fingers over a light, dusty cloak the color of rust, lined with dark brown fur. "I am not. How is the royalty?"

"'Queen Anna is betrothed to a man from the city of Gothenburg- the first son of a second prince. Princess Anna is yet to wed, much to the consternation of her sister. Personally, many believe she has a future spouse squirreled away somewhere, but I've yet to add my two cents."

Hans tilts his head thoughtfully. "When is the wedding held?"

"You are right on time- it is held tomorrow, and everyone is invited, commoners and blue blooded alike. It will take place in the castle, as per usual."

"Ah, thank you," Hans says, passing him the cloak. "I'll take that."

After a small amount of haggling, he manages to obtain the cloak for a reasonable price, along with sturdy boots and a new saddle for Victoria. By then, it is late evening, and he retreats back to the inn for a meal and sleep. He chastises himself for being grateful for Anna's unmarried state- it would not matter much to him, after all. At most, even if she was, he would content himself with an apology, and no more, but his heart still hurts just that little bit less. She would hardly welcome him back with open arms, and it was quite futile to hope at this point.

He would stay for the wedding. After that, he would leave.

* * *

(Don't be greedy, Hans. It suits you ill.)

* * *

The ballroom is even more opulent that what he remembers (Hans, do not think about it), no doubt in part to the sisters' more mature tastes. After all, the castle is now a strikingly vivid imitation of Queen Elsa's ice castle, but instead in stone, brick, and lattice work, and the high, towering, narrow arches and pointed spikes lend a surreal mood. Hans suspects Anna has a hand in many of the castle's crystal clear ice windows, shimmering and multicolored in the late afternoon sun.

The ballroom is a scaled version of the many hallways from what he had seen- high, vaulted dark mahogany ceilings with deep forest green and purple drapes covering nearly every available surface. The floor is a shiny marble, with fine etchings and paintings of old kings and queens from days past. Hans watches as his new, practical, but not too shabby looking boots clack over a woman's face- she has fine brown hair and light blue eyes. She reminds him of Anna.

He rubs a gloved hand over his face- he was here to enjoy the party, remember? Remind himself of the things he can no longer reach.

* * *

(Hans, stop, you know you cannot get everything you want, child.)

* * *

The room is cheerful and booming with life, and most are just a spiral of color, dancing around the room to the orchestra.

The groom is a tall, lean figure that looks sharp in blues and blacks, which contrasts so strongly with his shockingly white hair and electric blue eyes. He is very handsome, young- but not boyish, and his high, angular jaw and cheekbones lend a deeper edge to his bright smile. Anna could definitely see Anna falling in love with Jack- they make a stunning couple, so alike in coloring and coiled elegance in their limbs, and they seem to own the room without much effort, silver and shining. She sends Elsa a excited smile and receives a high chime of laughter in return, and her sister waves her off. "Go have some fun! Find a charming young man!"

"I'm too old for that!" Anna calls back, but makes her way around the ballroom anyway. Eventually, after exchanging pleasantries with others- some real and some merely polite veils (she has become very good with acting) she finds herself standing at the edge of a group of young, excited children, listening eagerly to a storyteller. His cloak is drawn over his head, presumably to add effect to the atmosphere- the ballroom was not the best place to tell any stories, after all, not with the noise.

His voice is a smooth baritone, and it seems so familiar, but Anna cannot place her mind on it. She finds herself being drawn into the story- it is enthralling, and she is hooked. He weaves a tale about a distorting mirror, shards of glass, a Snow Queen, and a best friend who refused to stop believing, no matter what. It reminds her of a nearly-endless winter a decade and one ago. (Reminders, the reminding, and the reminded. She thinks of red hair and fair skin and freckles and a blue-eyed smile, the dead smell of rotten roses. It hurts.)

The young girls seem glad that there was a happy ending- so do the boys, but some seem upset by perhaps the lack of action, or the ending to the story. Anna can never tell. The storyteller does not seem to notice her- the children are sweet and engrossing without even trying. Someone pipes up, demanding more in a high treble.

The storyteller laughs- it is as velvet as the weaving of his tale- and throws his hood back.

* * *

(She never found him.)


	4. like a ghost you haunt me every day

**Anna was giving me a little trouble for this one.  
****For clarification, Anna is 18 when she meets Hans, Elsa is 20, and Hans is 20 and roughly a half. Therefore, since nearly a decade has passed, Anna is 26, Elsa is 29, and Hans is about 29, but not quite. Elsa and Hans have had their birthdays, but Anna has not.**

**Edit: I don't know where I mixed up Anna with Elsa, but I did notice some errors with the dividing. Thanks for letting me know. I didn't do anything else to this chapter, other than adding the dividers. It might have been confusing earlier, so I decided to change it.**

* * *

_**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **_

* * *

"Anna, _please._"

"Kristoff, what do you want me to do?" Anna is clearly on the edge now, her emotions spilling out of her throat and she chokes on the words as Kristoff watches helplessly. Their words have been going around in circles now.

"I-" Kristoff begins, but the sounds fade off with a burning crackle as Anna takes a step back, as if to run. They stand in stilted silence, and the only sound is the fading swoosh of wind and the sounds of the forest around the lake.

"_Anna,_" Kristoff persists, and Anna is this close from having a breakdown, but Kristoff will not have any of it, "I swear, I did not know, it really wasn-"

"How do you expect me to trust you?" She asks, and she seems more exhausted than anything else. The year and a world of tiredness seems to have caught up with her, and her leafy green eyes hold nothing but weariness.

Kristoff feels an irrational anger begin to rise up inside of him, and he knows it is utterly wrong and uncalled for, but it bursts out before he can stop it. "So it's all _my _fault, then? This-" Kristoff gestures to Anna wildly, "is a lie? All of it?" He feels so very frustrated.

Anna looks uncertain. "Look, it is not just that-"

"Then _what?"_

"Look, you don't get it! This- this is not just about you and me! Your _family," _ Anna spits out, and it falls from her lips and hits him better than the butt of any blade or axe could, "ruined someone's life. Someone they did not even know, and all for the sake of a _happy ever after?_" The last words are drawn out, and it vaguely sounds like Anna is singing along to a much, much happier tune than the situation warrants. She seems shocked by her outburst.

"I'm sorry, Kristoff, I just..."

"I get it," Kristoff murmurs.

* * *

Anna runs and leaves footprints behind in the snow to the haunting scent of dead perennials.

* * *

The forest looks dark, looming, filled with monsters and boogeymen, and the icicles hanging off the trees look dangerous, spiked, instead of the usual elegance and shimmering beauty Anna was accustomed to. Anna wonders how desperate Hans was. Or perhaps, how much time he had to imagine riding off into a landscape like this, with the wind whistling past his ears, without the stench of mildew burning his senses. That was her fault, she thinks.

The truth stains the evening snow.

* * *

Anna does not move on.

At the very least, it is the most she can do for the one person that she sent spiraling into an abyss so deep it seems like forever. She will not forget, not for him. The memories will stay, like the color of Arendelle in endless, all encompassing winter, a head of burning auburn and blue eyes and betrayal, a streak of platinum blonde through honey golden brown.

She locks it up behind bars and cages and laughter and tears and sorrow and anger, and she does not let Kristoff's broad shoulders and blonde hair wither the memory down. It remains pristine and clear, a portrait behind a black veil.

It is a cornerstone, a stepping stone, a breaking point, and from then on, there, Anna falters in her footsteps. Each time she walks, there always seems to be something dragging her down.

She does not forget.

* * *

(go away, Anna.)

* * *

Elsa wrings her hands, and Anna watches as the sunlight from the nearby lattice window flickers off her hair.

"Anna, why don't you just look for him? You might have a chance at finding him."

"Elsa... The thing is, this is all my fault. He is probably laying low- if otherwise, I do not believe he will want to see me," Anna says bitterly. "I just wanted you to know that- that we were wrong."

"The thing is- how can you be so sure? He did love you, after all."

"I don't know if I can reciprocate that. That was the whimsical promises of a child, and I was won over by his handsomeness and charisma- but I do need to make up for it, and I don't know how."

"Think of him as a friend, then. There are many different kinds of love- and I know you, Anna. This isn't just borne out of guilt and regret that you somehow caused it."

"I'm just so confused..."

Elsa reaches over and pours another cup of steaming Earl Grey tea. She sets it on a ornate plate and pushes it towards Anna. "Think on it."

* * *

When Elsa announces the plans for a bigger castle, Anna thinks about the music of an orchestra, dancing silhouettes on a warm ice, and a duet on top of a lighthouse.

* * *

When Anna sees the clear, ice windows, sharp and beautiful and everything that her sister is but she is not, she wants to cry.

* * *

Elsa fumbles anxiously, her expression so far from her usual façade. She only lets Anna see it now, and even after all this while, she feels something warm inside. It is another thing that only Anna is privy to, and she no longer longs for how things used to be.

Elsa looks gorgeous in her wedding dress, and Anna feels a unreasonable pang of jealousy. The marriage is only for convenience, she knows, but Anna wants something like Elsa has, to be able to jump around and twiddle her thumbs nervously, because this was the person she was going to spend the rest of her life with, no matter what. She remembers a strong jaw and broad shoulders and shining black boots and an Isabelline colored coat.

She stares at white roses in a china vase on Elsa's windowsill, and blinks until her eyes are dry.

* * *

Anna remembers, but sometimes she wonders if she made the right choice. She remembers a day when she rode out to the forest and saw wilting roses, petals ground to dust and ash. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth and an inky smear on her fingertips.

* * *

_*Isabelline is a color and is referring to Hans' horse._


	5. this rose has (hasn't) lost its red

**Sorry for the long absence, but I've been really busy... Also, this is shorter than I intended it to be, but I've been struggling with this for a while..**

**Thanks again for all the feedback! **

_**Disclaimer: I do not own** **anything.**_

* * *

There are flashes of green and gold and red and purple and blue and dresses twirling and boots clacking and Anna does not remember which tune every violin and cello sang along to on that day, but it does not matter, because all she can see is him. Suddenly, her eyes feel inexplicably dry, but she does not want to blink. The irrational fear that Hans will disappear, like a gust of wind or a word on the tip of a tongue burns through her mind and she wants nothing more than to look closer, but she is rooted to the spot. She refuses to turn away.

Her heart skips yet another beat and picks up again, pounding erratically against her ribcage. The world is unrelenting, and she feels dizzy from everything that is happening around her. Hans does not notice her, and he pulls out a pocketwatch from his coat and makes to leave.

There is something sad in his expression, and Anna has absolutely no doubt that she put it there. There is a fleeting moment of vague self-loathing before she realizes he is halfway across the hall, weaving expertly throughout the crowd to make for the door. Anna promptly unfreezes and makes her way through with more hastiness but no less skill, and by the time she reaches the opened heavy oaken doors, his silhouette is outlined behind the waters of the stone fountain.

"Wait!" Anna's voice rings desperately throughout the empty, chilly courtyard. The night leaves prickles of goosebumps on her skin, but she does not falter. Hans stumbles over a cobblestone, and he turns around abruptly, his hood drawn up over his head, his blue eyes pale and sharp in the moonlight.

Hans raises the hem of his midnight blue hood and pushes it back. His hair looks crimson in the moonlight, and the minute grey reminds her of her own platinum blonde streak that no longer exists, gone with the rising sun, along with the galloping of a cream horse and sweet, sweet roses. His eyebrows are furrowed, and Anna still remembers the malice that once distorted his handsome face. At least it was not ever genuine. It was real, it was there, but Anna knows it is not his fault.

"Anna?" Hans's voice is hoarse, so unlike the smooth glide of his words in the bright hall, and Anna wonders if this is another metaphor. If everything looks worse at night, when the darkness creeps in slowly and you can feel monsters and shadows behind you. Anna agrees.

It seems fitting that those would be the words they say to each other first, like one of the only things she knows about him. She wishes she could have gotten to know the name of his horse, his favorite fruits, whether he liked marmalade or butter on his toast. It's too late for all of that now, but his name will be the one unfaltering thing.

The silence rings, not awkward, but oppressing, like Atlas holding up the sky and Anna wants to buckle under its weight. Hans does not, and he seems so tired, like the burden is familiar to him, and he stays strong under it with resignation but the knowledge that if he lets go, he will be crushed. He rubs a grey gloved hand over his face. "I meant what I said that day. And for what it matters... I am sorry. If you didn't know."

Anna smiles, but it hurts more than anything. "I know." Her voice hurts, and her hesitation feels like a lump in her throat.

"You know... what you did that day... it wasn't your fault, you know."

His laugh is bitter. "I know. Who would believe the disgraced, unneeded prince?" he spreads his arms. "Jealousy- what a pity, he seemed like such a nice young man. It's okay, we have- oh wait, twelve more."

Anna's heart aches so badly. "It was my fault. Do you remember the tale of Arendelle's trolls?"

Hans does not respond, so Anna carries on. "They-they wanted me to be with someone else. And I guess- I guess they aren't quite as harmless as the little, mossy boulders they look like. Hans- I just- I'm sorry." Everything seems inadequate in the light of this, and Anna wishes there was something that could express everything she feels at this very moment.

Hans is completely still. The silence threatens to crush her again, and finally, he sighs. The soft exhale seems like a booming shout, and it manages to voice everything better than words ever could. "I don't think I could blame you, if I wanted to." His blue eyes look indigo in the moonlight, and they bear an unimaginable age in them. Anna wants so desperately to be the one that causes the laugh lines around his eyes, so she can take all of that away, make him seem less weary.

He takes two steps towards her, and she reaches out. He cradles it in his palm, before gently letting it go. "I'm staying at the inn, on the edge of town, and I leave before the sun rises tomorrow."

The swish of his cloak seems as loud as the slamming of metal doors in this instance, and the silence is chased away. Anna is left with a empty chest and a mind full of regrets. He turns around once, just as he reaches the edges of the palace walls. His words are nearly stolen by the wind, but Anna's ears are sharp. That has not changed, either.

* * *

"I love you, you know."

* * *

His hair glimmers crimson in the moonlight, like the roses in the forest, so unlike the snowy white roses on Elsa's windowsill.

This time, she watches him go, and his figure gets further away until he is another speck of dust in a swirling, ancient room, full of cobwebs and all undesirable things.


	6. like a lovesick fool

**I sincerely apologize for the super-late update and the slowly deteriorating quality of my writing. D:**

**I've also decided to change the title to the song from Within Temptation's Shot in the Dark, because I thought it fitted this story better. You should listen to it. c:  
This is probably the longest thing I've written, which is sad. Thank you all for following, favoriting, and reviewing!**

_**Disclaimer: I hold no claim on the English language or the characters, etc etc.**_

* * *

The bed creaks noisily, and the room is damp and heavy, and every breath he takes sits heavily on his chest. The sky outside is still dark, but that is just fine. It leaves him plenty of time, and he finds that the darkest moments are always the quietest. The silence rings, oppressing. The burden is familiar, as is the resignation. It does not matter, anyway- he saw her one last time, and he never breaks promises. At least, not of his own free will. _Free will._ He tastes tight bitterness as he laces up his boots.

The thing is- Hans has always wanted to make a difference. When he was being laughed at with sand in his shoes and dirt on his fingers, and he looks up at twelve heads of his father's dirty blonde hair and his mother's cold green eyes, he knows he sticks out, an unwanted presence among seas and seas of people better than him, of people worthy to mock him because he was not anything special, after all. The little prince that had to be dragged out of training, who dreams about fairytales and everything else just as unattainable (you will _never_ be better than any of us- don't delude yourself, _Hans._)

Oh, he made a difference, alright. Just maybe not the good kind.

His gold, worn pocketwatch tells him there is an half hour to go. The door rattles slightly on its hinges as he shuts it behind him, and the innkeeper glances blearily at him as he leaves the rusty keys on the table. The man scribbles something down on a yellowed scrap of parchment and waves at him blearily.

Hans ignores the man and pushes open the creaky inn door to the purple light of just-before-dawn. His footsteps sound eerily loud in the quiet, and a bird chirps mournfully in the distance. The forest behind the stables of the old inn looks stark against the landscape, black shadows of barren tree branches stretching out into the still starry sky.

Hans rubs a hand over his eyes as he moves closer to where Victoria is waiting for him. He feels more weary now, and every hour feels like a year, a decade, a millennium of a life spent wandering around in a endless desert, marooned at sea, lost in the stars. There was once an oasis, a lighthouse, a gravitational force that used to anchor him to the ground where he stood. Now, every fall of his boots against the solid floor does not seem quite so certain anymore.

He is a compass that forgot how to point due north. He walks on water and he drowns in air, and he should have never came back. But he did, and he is not sure whether it was worth it after all.

* * *

Anna's night is sleepless, and the stars watch her mournfully from the sky outside her latticed bedroom window.

The moon shines mockingly, all stark white and black and she watches it until there is a crescent shaped hole in her vision whenever she blinks. Anna wishes it was easier to figure this out.

When she finally falls asleep, there is a ghost with Hans' face and Kristoff's ice blue eyes wearing a crown of thorned roses at the edge of her room, blocking the doorway (_you need to choose, Anna, why won't you?_), and she wakes up in a cold sweat and no recollection of why the orange roses on her nightstand, a gift from Jack from his homeland, sends her heart pounding.

In the end, she leaves the palace an hour before dawn, and hopes she isn't too late. Her knuckles are white from how tightly she is gripping the reins, and every clack of Almond's hooves against the ground seems painfully slow.

Hans knows he is dithering, but he cannot bring himself to leave. All he is able to do lately seems to be making bad decisions, and it all starts when he volunteers to go in the kingdom's stead for the coronation of a small kingdom next to the city of Bergen.

The tip of light is just beginning to peak over the horizon, and Hans adjusts his cloak absently before spurring Victoria towards the edge of the forest. He does not have anywhere to go, but anywhere from the memories of what could have been, at least, where he has time to think. A decade is nearly not enough.

* * *

Anna is desperate, and running out of time.

* * *

"Hans, wait!"

The figure atop a creamy brown horse, thankfully, stops. Anna's breath is coming in heavy, heaving breaths, and her fingers are numb from her grip of the reins. The sun is nearly visible now, and Anna has never felt so relieved.

"I... I know that this isn't-" Anna sighs. "I know it's at least my fault... But if you ever think that you can ever talk to me again... can you come back?"

Hans is silent for a long while. It feels like the decade she's lost, looking for him. The sun laughs mockingly as it slips higher in the distance. He turns, and his blue eyes are still piercing underneath the hood of his cloak.

"I will. In time. And maybe we can get to know each other like the civilized adults we should be." His smile is nearly faded, but it's there. The little lines around his eyes crinkle.

Anna nods. It does not take much effort for her to return the smile. "Right. I suppose that's all I can ask for."

Hans doesn't respond, but the smile gets bigger, before he turns away, and rides further away from her. It feels a little less like losing him and a little more like finally letting go.

* * *

Tea sessions with Elsa were starting to become more frequent. Jack was a genuinely nice person, but the loneliness and the blurred haze of a cold, frozen heart beside a fireplace, a not-kiss and a cruel smile seems to intensify whenever she sees him.

At least it wasn't real, she thinks. She hopes Jack will not do the same, because there will be no cold in her heart stopping her from braining him with whatever metal object is close at the time.

* * *

The next time, his black cloak is slightly tattered and worn, but Victoria's coat is as well groomed as ever, and his face is the same, but his eyes are older.

The ornate doors open in a wide welcome, and he enters only after a little hesitation to a familiar palace, and Anna's nervous smile.

* * *

_(tell me) did you fall for a shooting star? -one without a permanent scar,_

_And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself (out there?)_


End file.
